Ch. 5: The Lost Caves of Colebrook
Back to Arheled “You have changed the place a lot since my day,” said Wayham Lane, and yet an eerie likeness to what I remember of it lingers.” He stared up at the pine grove with thoughtful eyes. The hazy morning was heavy and blue with the threat of heat. “It has changed even in my time.” said Grandmother Lane, leaning on the new pine cane Wayham had carved for her. It had a curious white head like some heraldic bird, and odd bosses and patterns ran down the stem. “It is interesting, living inside one of these houses.” Wayham said thoughtfully. They strolled slowly down the drive; there were letters to put in the mail. “Their devices are fascinating, and feel almost as if I lived among magicians.” “And yet in many ways I am a throwback, with my fireplace and brick oven, and wood stove in the basement.” Grandmother Lane smiled. “The winterberry is bearing well this year, it seems.” They were passing the cleared belt of tall shoots and weeds, the winterberry bright strong green among them, and great clusters of deep red berries glowed amid the leaves. “Yes, the summer holly.” Wayham nodded. “Wayfinder told me to plant some outside each window, and then to plant the ring. I completed it the year before I vanished.” “We cleared out the belt around the house just this winter.” said Grandmother Lane. “Wayfinder himself came in person to help.” “Did you see him?” inquired Wayham with some interest. Grandmother Lane shook her head with an austere dignity. “He—seemed to be avoiding me.” she said. “I know I must not become bitter about it, but it is still a sorrow to me.” “Wayfinder always has his reasons.” “I feel so useless, is all! exploded the old woman fiercely. “I am old. I can walk only slowly. I sit, and I watch, and watch, and watch, like some ancient spider, as things rush slowly on to some awful climax, and me powerless to help.” “You are Lane.” Wayham answered. “We are the greeters of the Road. When the Road returns, we will be ready.” “This has been a nice July.” said Ronnie out loud. “Until now.” The weather had been average-warm, seldom reaching 90, mostly dry and pleasant. Then a week ago it suddenly shot into the 90s, and reports from the cities put it in the hundreds there. Of course the blueberry patch along the shore of Rugg Brook Res. had ripened right during that time, and all the berries were three times as big as normal and so plentiful he was pulling clusters of up to nine berries from the same stem. It had taken him all day to harvest one-third of the patch, and not only his gallon-pretzel-jar was full, so was the old mayonnaise jar he’d used for picking. He had to go swimming almost once an hour to stay cool. It occurred to him as he pedaled down the long level of Rt. 44 above the Mad River gorge, that Mr. Bailey of the Health Food Corner might buy some local produce. He knew the Baileys from St. Joseph’s, especially the two Bailey girls, Kaitlyn and Shannon. The straw hat was an absolute necessity in the hard humid sun, but he doffed it when he came to the long downhill into Winsted. For one thing, even strings couldn’t keep it on at those speeds, and for another he never wore it in town. He knew how weird he looked in it. The Bailey store was in the corner of the IGA Super Saver store building (“saver”, quote-unquote; their prices were twice that of Aldi’s), across from Bridge Street, where Union met Main. Ronnie went inside. A sign advertised yoga classes, the Baileys being under the delusion that it could be practiced in a Catholic way. All sorts of carob and organic or odd foods lined the shelves (all overpriced), as well as dried fruit and nut containers, goya berries, goat-milk cheese, millet and wheat and rye flours, and even a freezer full of organic or soy-free ice cream, and even milk-free ice cream made from coconut milk. It had a queer, stuffy but pleasant smell, of odd dried exotic foods and strange outlandish products: a health-food-store smell. There was a raised rear section reached by two stairs. A counter stood at the right near the door. A stand of organic Belgian chocolates and, in season, maple candy, stood on the left, and against the left wall was a refrigerated produce aisle full of cheeses and local and organically grown produce. Mr. Bailey, who had a tall narrow head with a square top, almost like a peg, finished with a customer and looked up with a wide half-obsequious smile. He had large square eyes of a light blue. “Hello, Ronnie!” he greeted. When he saw Ronnie’s blueberries, especially the size of them, he whistled and got so enthusiastic he bought the whole harvest for $30 and told him to bring another of the same if he had any. Ronnie thanked him and went out to his bike. “How are you taking the heat, Ronmond?” someone called from the outdoor tables in front of the restaurant next door to the Baileys. He looked over, a little startled, and saw a craggy odd man with darkish hair going grey and very somber, wise old eyes. He wore jeans and a light flannel shirt, and on his head was a straw hat just like Ronnie’s. “Pretty well, Arheled.” Ronnie replied. “And yourself?” “You have very little time.” said Arheled. “Middlesummer Day, the Feast of St James, is Monday: three days away. I have learned there is one thing that the Lord of Chaos lacks; an object that is guarded by the Lost Caves of Colebrook.” “So I must find the caves before he does?” “Nay, before Middlesummer Day comes. Nothing protects the Caves save this concealment; and within the Cave is a deep well, and at the bottom of this well is the object that we seek.” “And what is this object?” “A very ancient thing,” answered Arheled, “long a symbol of kingship in Middle-earth. Proud are the words, and all there turned '' ''to see the jewels green that burned '' ''in Beren’s ring. These Noldor set '' ''as eyes of serpents twined that met '' ''beneath a golden crown of flowers '' ''that one upholds and one devours: '' ''the band Finarfin made of yore '' ''and Felagund his son now bore.” '' “The Ring of Barahir!” wondered Ronnie. “But why would he want a powerless ring?” “I do not know,” replied Arheled, frowning. “And it disturbs me greatly. I left it there, in the well full of men’s tears that weep: I thought it had no power, the legends say that it was only as an heirloom that it was valued…” “Didn’t it come out of Valinor?” “So it was said,” Arheled answered, “or the gems at any rate; though beyond luminosity they seem to have no other remarkable traits. The mere fact of an heirloom coming from the Blessed Realm means little, unless a virtue or a blessing was wrought into it with intent or laid upon it. No matter. What does matter is that our Enemy seeks it, and so we must find it first and set it under the Road.” “How is it guarded?” “No power can reach into the water of men’s tears that weep, save on Middlesummer Day in the year of the Road’s returning: not even I. That was why the Sign of Ward’s Hill pointed out that date; I wondered at that, suspecting, but I did not know. You, however, can reach into it at any time, for you have no power.” “You put the Signs on the Hills, Arheled.” “Some I did; some I merely oversaw; and some were done without my knowledge.” replied Arheled. “I am not the only mover of events upon this Middle-earth, Ronnie; there are powers in the world not connected with me, but neither are they hostile to man. I am of the Road, and the Road is my concern. I do not, for instance, command the wind or guide the waters, nor do I govern the churning of the seas. Wallens Hill was not inspired by me. I saw it, and it disturbed me; but I guided you to it none the less.” Travel Lane was just getting in her car when the phone rang. With a sigh she fished it out of her bag and opened it. The number was familiar but there was no name attached to it, which meant it was probably Ronnie’s. “Hello-o.” she said, propping herself against the frame. “Travel, it’s Ronnie. We have to seek out the Lost Caves before July 25th. Arheled just told me they hold something that the lord of Chaos seeks, but which he can only get on that day.” “The Lost Caves of Colebrook?” said Travel thoughtfully. “Grandmother Lane mentioned them once. So did Arheled.” “Yes, that’s where the Wild Man was pointing. I read up on the Lost Caves long ago, but I can print out the article at the library. Are you free?” “The 25th, that’s…Monday, right? Can we wait till the heat ends?” “Traaa-vellll….” “OK, OK, I’m just asking. How long will it take us?” “Better plan on spending a night there. Hunting over the length and breadth of Knapp Hill might take awhile. I’ll bring rope and matches and a little reading-light-thingy I’ve had for a while, but I don’t have a tent.” “I do, but it’s a small one.” “Good. Let’s start tomorrow.” “Oh please, Ronnie, I have things to get done. It is Saturday, you know. Besides, Wayham might know something about the Caves. How about we leave after church?” “I’m going to the vigil Mass tonight. But if you want, I’ll meet you at St. James after your 9:30 service.” “The cave under what hill?” said Wayham, a little confused. “That’s what Ronnie called it.” Travel defended. “The mountain just south of a brook emptying into the Center Brook.” Grandmother Lane tried to explain. “Well, I did wander out this way when I first explored the Roads, but not in a few hundred years.” “The place, prior to 1841, bore the name Witches’ Retreat.” Grandmother Lane said quietly. Wayham’s head jerked up. For a moment a wild, feline glitter lit his eyes. “''That hill.” he breathed. “I might have known. Yes, I know the place now. A steep-faced fell rising out of a marsh, the north end a broken cliff. And under the cliff…yes, there were caves there.” “Why was it called…that?” said Travel. “Why else would men give it that name.” Wayham answered. “The witches went there to ‘recharge’ as they call it. Working magic will consume their power; they have to rest for a little and charge up. It is the most evident difference between true charisms and witch-powers.” Ronnie came up for supper as he’d been invited, and he had with him a printout of the old articles dealing with the Lost Caves. “It was discovered in 1841,” Ronnie informed Travel and Wayham as they waited for supper to be served, “by some boys shouting into a hole under a boulder. Their parents used blasting to open an entrance into the cavern, which is described as a straight chamber, larger than a railway tunnel, with a partially blocked mouth of 50 feet across and 30 feet high. It runs first north then northeast under the mountain for a full quarter mile, varying from “very high” to 10 feet high, and in places 80 feet wide. Kind of unbalanced. Openings of many sizes were in the walls, from one of which they heard falling water.” “Where was it located?” put in Wayham. “It describes a projecting cliff a hundred feet high, hanging over the entrance, seeming to defy the known laws of gravitation.” “That would be the north end.” said Wayham. “But it describes the mouth as being on the SE.” said Ronnie. “Facing SE, perhaps. On the SE there is barely even a rock wall. Only stones. And what scarps there are do not overhang.” '' “We met with several deep pits,” Ronnie read aloud, '' “into one of which we were near falling. Two of them resembled wells…We sounded one of them to the depth of nine fathoms and another to the depth of five or so. In the first well we found water, but the second was dry.” '' “How’d it get lost?” inquired Travel. “That’s the interesting thing.” said Ronnie. “It was rediscovered in 1926, in November. The article describing this second finding, by a gypsy moth hunter named Dolor La Belle and some others, begins with a description of the cave’s dimensions evidently taken from the 1841 article. La Belle moved away debris and found the opening to be a foot and a half wide, and crawled in for fifty feet. They returned a week later and “crawled” into the cave for about a hundred feet, where the way was barred by huge stones. At one point they could stand upright but it was so choked with great rocks as to be difficult to advance. They heard water in the distance. Concluding that frost had shaken loose the rocks, they left.” “Then what’s this about it being blasted shut?” said Travel, reading over his shoulder. “In 1947 a column mentions a WPA project ‘a dozen years ago’, in the early thirties, that blasted shut the cave due to concerns about the pits.” “But if the 1926 explorers found it nearly collapsed, why bother blasting?” said Travel. “And what is WPA?” “The Works and Progress Administration.” snorted Ronnie. “One of the many idiotic agencies of the New Deal that went around inventing stuff to do in order to keep people employed. Sounds just like them to blast shut a cave already collapsed. But maybe a way is still left inside.” The next morning dawned as hot and stiflingly humid as before. Ronnie, dressed in old pants and shirt, met Travel as arranged outside the Episcopal church. She looked hot and grumpy. “We should stop at the beach first.” he jested. “Hey, you’re the one dragging me along on this.” she said. “Do you even know where they are?” “Up in North Colebrook, on the town line of Norfolk.” he replied. “We go north from the Center, then turn left at Shantry Road.” The blue haze hanging over the pines robbed them of the mystery and remoteness they bore in cooler times, making the forests all alike under the drooping oppression of heat. Colebrook Center looked cooler, however, with the old white buildings and green old maples. “Let’s buy a cookie at the Store.” Ronnie suggested. “The guy went out of business. Again.” complained Travel. The road climbed between grey stone walls under great green maples, old white farmhouses beyond. Then they drove up a long flat between walls of high red maples, and came to the crossroads where the old Rock school, a small square building, sat on its’ new foundation in one corner of the crossroads where the State moved it when they widened the road. Turning left they drove into more remote, less canny country. Red maple and oak gave the woods an unfamiliar aspect. They drove by some houses and then descended into a deep bowl. “Knapp Hill.” said Ronnie. “There it is.” There it was indeed. A marsh opened on the right, and towering some four hundred feet above it was a steep rounded hill, dark green and blue in the steaming haze. Travel found a spot to hide the car in and they set off on foot. “You could just Travel there.” said Ronnie. “Hey, I don’t think it works just like ''that.” protested Travel. “It only seems to happen when I need it.” “Yes, well, it’s one of the more practical of our powers. You should practice using it.” “Hey, you never have to practice using your revealing power or whatever!” “I know how to use it, though. So do Brooke and Lara. I think you should, too.” “Hmph.” said Travel. They passed to the right of the marsh. Here loggers were active, and paths had been chewed into the forest, and piles of branches and discarded tops of timber trees filled the brown wood. A green roof far overhead, a green wall on the left where the marsh ran, but still it was a brown place. After a while they came to the marsh’s end and crossed a dark mossy vale of deep old moss and deep old hemlock and birch. Sudden slopes rose up before them, and they entered the rockslopes of Knapp Hill. It was the queerest place Ronnie had been in. Not eerie and silent and solemn like Temple Fell, or queer and wild like Rugg Valley. It was a jumbled, barren jungle; at once living and sterile. Moss and deep fern grew over the rocks, but so did a multitude of dead branches and dead trees, and straggly wild brush grew under them as it did after a forest fire. It felt ruined. It felt both lush and dead. The tangled branches and rocks made climbing hard even for him. “That is the weirdest tree I’ve ever seen.” said Travel. Ronnie looked where she was pointing. Near the bottom an old hollow birch, yellow birch from the look of it, had remained alive on two sides while the wood between decayed and vanished, leaving two live columns of wood like legs under the main trunk, an open narrow arch fifteen feet high between them. “If this was in a story,” he said ruefully as he drew near, “going under this would teleport you to a mystical realm, or give you magic powers, or something weird like that.” He walked under it. Absolutely nothing happened. “But we’re not in a story. We’re in real life. Seems almost a pity, doesn’t it?” “And real life is quite crazy enough.” Travel said with a shudder. They found quickly enough that Wayham was right: there were barely even any rock faces on the SE and E faces of the long steep, just jumbled rocks. The cliff, broken faces leaning back into the hill and not at all like the description, grew highest towards the middle. Then as the hill curved north, it’s face began to jut out, mighty cracked scarps broken horizontally, so that the downsloping layers seemed poised, about to fall. “But it doesn’t match.” Ronnie fumed. “It’s not even fifty feet high, let alone a hundred.” “It does look pretty threatening, though.” Travel pointed out. “Yes, but this isn’t even a precipice. Those boulders go almost to the top. And look how the cliff goes inward right here. Still, it’s the only spot that even resembles the description.” “They said the mouth was on the SE.” “''Toward'' the SE. It might have faced that way. Wayham seemed to think so.” “Yes, and he knew it before anyone else, didn’t he?” Ronnie took out his funny reading-lamp—a birthday present from his parents, when you pressed a button on the side a little arm unfolded and a bulb gave off a brilliant blueish light—and Travel took her flashlight and they crawled into every single opening they could find. Ronnie wormed his way into holes and narrow cracks Travel thought impossible. It was as if the entire cliff had fractured apart and slumped forwards, laving great cracks and hollows between rubble and the mighty chunks of cliff. There were entire levels of passages. A queer vinegar-mossy smell, like wet rock and moldy earth and wine, pervaded the deeper passages. But none of them penetrated beyond thirty feet into the hill. Towards evening they decided to climb over the summit and look at the view. The slope up the finger of the north ridge rose steeply. Soon they were climbing out of the beech forest and up mountain-grass. Dull old hemlocks rose out of it, along with grey hickories and ash. The terrain and even the plants were the same as on Temple Fell, but the atmosphere was utterly different. One Temple Fell you felt something there; on Knapp Hill they only felt a strange barren and broken ruinness, like an exhausted old man sitting down to die. The trees shut out any view, save for glimpses of a hazy blue distance on the left at a great depth below them. Once they passed a square flat standing stone, like a table, which would have made a far better altar than the Altarstones of Temple Fell; but no grove of crooked hickories leaned in towards it, and it felt no different than any other rock. “You’d think that in a place called Witches’ Retreat that you would feel some creepiness.” Travel remarked as they passed the summit, swatting mosquitos. “Oh, you do.” said Ronnie. “Something was cast out of here. Something was driven out, and left only a feel of barrenness and desolation—What the heck is that?” In a glade of ash and hickory, there stood among the pale-green grass what looked like a chair of stone. A big, incredibly thin, bent slab had been propped up at an angle like the back of a lawn chair. Masonry of dry stones formed low arms, and flat slabs made a seat between. “Now that is weird.” said Travel. “Let’s go a little further and then we’ll start again.” They headed on until the grassy slope began to plunge sharply, and turned back. As they came in sight of the Chair both of them stopped short. An old woman sat in the stone chair. She was short and dumpy, grey hair pulled back in a bun, an Indian-style shawl wrapped around her; and yet in her dark old eyes, and her sour face, Ronnie felt a sense of great menance, as if a strange and hostile power had suddenly manifested. “Who are you?” he hissed. “What are you doing here?” The old woman looked up and met his eyes, and in that instant he knew who she was. “That question is mine to ask, Mr. Hill,” she answered, and somehow under her quiet voice was a vast sense of suppressed power. “What are you doing in Witches’ Retreat?” Ronnie’s eyes glowed; he seemed tense, as if poised for a battle. “I come in the name of Arheled and the power of the Road. I seek the Lost Caves.” The old woman cackled. “But you haven’t found them, have you? Maybe I can help.” “And why should we take help from you, '' Witch of Winchester?” The Witch of Winchester arched her eyebrows. “You have good eyes.” she said in a sort of grudging admiration. “Wouldn’t you like to sit in this chair, hmm?” “It’s a witch’s chair.” said Ronnie. “I have no interest in that.” “Oh, but you do, you do, I see it in your eyes.” the Witch murmered softly, leaning forward; there was a blue gleam in hers. “Don’t tell me, when you sit in that chair you gain the sight of angels and eagles.” Ronnie said scornfully. “Well, not quite, not quite that.” cackled the Witch. “In point of fact, it bestows one thing. Wouldn’t you like to know what it is?” “I already know: knowledge of good and evil, in one form or another.” said Ronnie. “I think I’ll pass.” “You will pass, yes, I know that,” she said, still with that eerie little smile, “but you will not ''passus us. And yet pass we shall, for we too are promised our hour, and it ticks ever closer.” “We look beyond that hour.” said Ronnie. “Yes, but will you survive it? That is the question.” said the Witch softly. The next moment the stone seat was empty. It was in a sober silence that they descended to their camp and ate sandwiches: peanut butter and jelly, but for the occasion they had packed mint jelly. The mosquitos soon drove the to moving around again. All the rest of that day they wandered over that hill, shining lights into holes and shouting into crevices. But no echos met their calls, and no other caves did they find. “What’s really irksome,” complained Ronnie, as a stuffy evening closed down on the land, “is that all the breaks in one spot—there, where the cliff suddenly retreats and the boulders get higher—are new. Recent. Clean stone, no moss, no sign of sitting like that for ages. Not like over to the left.” “You think the cliff fell in?” “I’m pretty sure of it.” he sighed. “Well, let’s pitch camp. We’ll poke around some in the morning and then we’ll leave.” “And high time too.” said Travel, swatting frantically at mosquitos. Their continuous, horrible drone filled the greying air. “Ow! I thought I sprayed for bugs!” “No repellant on earth can keep away mosquitos.” said Ronnie. While Travel was putting up the tent on a more or less level boulder, Ronnie go out the matches and collected dry twigs. As he came around the edge of a jutting boulder, he stopped in surprise. Seated on the crag’s tip, dark against the bright evening sky, was a rough-looking man with long black hair, a great ragged cloak pulled close around him. He turned his head, revealing the eerie, mocking eyes and craggy features of the Wild Man of Winsted. “Well, have you revealed them yet?” he said in his rough, wild voice. “Has your superior power of uncovering finally cut in?” “I’ve searched every hole in this part of the hill.” said Ronnie. “If there was a way in, I will find it.” The Wild Man of Winsted got to his feet, leaping down in a huge swath of mantle. In the dim evening, in that wild distant place, he felt dangerous, unsafe to be around. “You cannot uncover what isn’t there,” he said sardonically. “Just can’t be done.” “Don’t blame me for trying.” said Ronnie, not backing down. “Are the Caves really there, Wild?” Travel asked from above them. She’d somehow managed to assemble the tent. Ronnie observed she was not eager to descend and talk face to face with their eerie, uncanny ally. “Have you been to Stillwater Pond?” Wild said, looking up at her. “I was there a few weeks ago. Why?” “You seen the rope swing?” said Wild. “Which one?” Ronnie asked. “The old one.” Wild answered. “Oh, that one! Yes, it’s so awesome. They built a nice stand for you to climb onto when you swing off, it’s really well done. I had a lot of fun there.” “Same here.” smiled Ronnie. “I met this really funny girl there called Pam, but I haven’t seen her since.” “It was destroyed.” said Wild. “What?” said Travel blankly. “By who?” “By vandals!” roared Wild. “They took apart the stand and took away the lumber with the trash, and as they left they chopped the rope short so no one can reach it!” “Oh no.” moaned Travel. “That’s horrible!” exclaimed Ronnie. “Who did it, do they know? Have the police caught them yet?” Wild gave a weird, saturnine laugh. “How could they,” he mocked, “when the vandals work for the State!” “You mean it was State workers on their off time who went out and—“ “It was on duty!” laughed Wild. “You don’t get it yet? The vandalism was done legally, by State workers on State orders!” “It’s State land, isn’t it.” muttered Ronnie. “Yes, that shore is. Hunter’s Point isn’t; the rope swing and stand there are safe enough, unless someone else commits treachery against it and sues or complains. Treachery is taught as a virtue today. Haven’t you seen those stupid billboards, ‘if you see something, say something’? Call the police if you see anything suspicious. Call the police if you see anyone act odd, for after all they might have drugs!” “It’s not fair.” sulked Travel. “We go there and the stand is perfectly safe, and we have such fun there, and then they go and smash it! Why do they think like that? Do they have an anti-fun policy??” “Safety.” jeered the Wild Man. “Someone might get hurt. Or, ‘someone did get hurt.’ Despite how many use it safely, one person’s injury robs the many. We must be safe, you know. No splashing at the beaches. No horseplay. Obviously no foreplay! And above all no rope swings.” “But what does this have to do with the Caves?” Wild looked up at the grim, broken rocks of the ruined cliff, and his voice was sad and thoughtful, though still with that saturnine bitterness underneath. “They took one look and saw a hole '' ''‘For Safety’s sake!” they cried '' ''Out whipped the sticks, the caps, the fuse '' ''“By Safety, let her ride!” '' ''The fuse was lit, the smoke it rose '' ''The whole cliff slipped and sighed '' ''“All is well, in Safety’s name '' ''Let the Caves the ruins hide!” '' “Are the Caves still there?” said Ronnie. “There was a collapse between the first and second discoveries, probably a result of the blasting done to make the entrance. Did that reach in very far?” “No,” the Wild Man said, “they still live. Caves of such a dimension would make a noticeable dent up there if they fell in, would they not? But these caves are older than you know, and mean more than you ken. “But we’re wasting time. It’s getting on to rain, and Middlesummer Day begins at midnight.” He sprang upwards, alighting in sweeping shadow on a rock. “Let the cliff be returned to what she began!” His feet grew broad and flat and huge, flowing like liquid roots, and they were stone, stone as solid as moving flesh, and Wild stood rooted to the rock. Travel’s tent went flying. Ronnie grabbed her hand and leaped down the dim rocks, guessing what was coming. With a ponderous groan the great moss-encrusted boulders rose up on end, shoving themselves into place as smoothly as a puzzle, stone fitting in stone. Far within the hill they could hear other rocks shifting and grinding. Then with a sigh the hill was fused solid. A single cliff, nearly a hundred feet high, towered above them, Wild standing at the top. Travel and Ronnie drew nearer, wonder on their faces. The rockslope was gone, save for the lowest boulders, a large bare area of sand and gravel, tumbled piles of leaves and dirt and crushed ferns lying at the cliff’s feet. And partway up the rock face an opening yawned. Broader than it was high, fifty feet across and thirty feet above, it seemed in the deepening grey-green of dusk like nothing so much as an enormous mouth. Wild jumped down with a thud, his cloak falling about him, and in his hands he swung two ancient oil lanterns, burning high and bright, designs in strange forms traced into the glass. “Well? What are you staring at?” he said with a sour grin. Travel and Ronnie came toward him. In the added glow they saw the cliff above them, the surface patchy, some blocks bare and some deep-furred with plants. Ferns and crushed stems of bushes stuck out of seams, like closed jaws. A small pile of rubble led stairlike up to the mouth. They followed the Wild Man of Winsted into the Lost Caves of Colebrook. It ran before them, a shaft cut through the living rock. The roof was jagged and broken, as if giant rocks had all jammed at once into a mighty fissure so that none ever reached bottom but remained instead like an arched roof. Under the debris of removing the blockage, here and there Ronnie made out a buried surface, hard and level as a road. Then the debris ceased and the floor ran on, and it was indeed level, hard and smooth as concrete, made of gravel in some parts and in others, flat bedrock. A queer smell, like the vinegar-earth-mold smell Ronnie had noticed before but with an added harshness like stone dust, filled the air. “This cave was not dissolved.” Ronnie said. His voice awoke queer echos, running away to odd distances and returning several times. “Oh, and how do you tell that, Mr. Hill?” the Wild Man said. “The sides are as clean as if cut with knives.” Ronnie said. “No drippings hang from the rocks. I see only a few calcite streaks.” “You speak rightly, Ronmond.” said the Wild Man, marching on further. Openings sundered the wall on both sides, some mere fissures in the banded rock, some mighty arches that looked as if, once, they had been cut into the stone, before time wore all signs of workmanship away. “Wide enough to admit a horse and carriage.” said the 1841 account. The stone was for the most part a whiteish-blue striped geneiss, banded with dark red, with grey-blue stripes and patches, and large streaks of pink feldspar. In some places the great boulders of the roof jutted down, coming to within ten feet of the floor. “This cave was never dissolved.” Wild said. “It was delved.” Ronnie started back from a ragged rift in the floor. His light showed broken sides going down beyond reach. “By whom?” The Wild Man stopped. Here a few of the giant stones making the roof had made it all the way to the floor, great rectangular slabs, so that the cave narrowed from what the 1841 measurements recorded as 83 feet to 67 feet. In the light of the lanterns they could see the straight cave running on for a great distance, until hundreds of feet further the light faded out. “By the Dwarves, Ronmond.” “Are you jesting with me, Wild Man?” Ronnie said, a sudden stern note in his voice. “Are you pulling my leg? The Dwarves lived in the Old World. One would expect to find them lingering in the Alps, or beneath the Himalayas. How did they ever cross the Sea to find the New World?” “They never did.” Wild answered. “The Sea crossed them. You assume the New World is as old as the Old; but it is not, it formed later, and the seeming age of the mountains comes from their being eroded while still soft. Lands broke off, Ronmond, when the world was Bent; lands were cast back, and in those lands old ruins lurk. Of those great cities of the Dwarves beneath the Orocarni,” gesturing about him, “this is all that remains. And even this scarcely does, for until I had acted all these rocks,” he pointed overhead, “were all down here.” They had come a good seven hundred feet by now. The air was cool and fungoid, heavy and harsh with broken stone. Another hole opened in the floor, round as a cauldron in a streambed, but not showing the smoothness of water. The floor here was solid rock. Ronnie shone in his light and saw straight sides like a gigantic bore, descending to a distant gleam of water. “This is the well.” said Wild. “Hold my rope.” Ronnie said, tossing it to Wild. It was yellow nylon, coiled around a stick. “I’m going down. How deep is it?” “It has a bottom, beyond light and knowledge.” the Wild Man said enigmatically. “Look closely, though. It may not be on the bottom.” Ronnie, with Travel’s flashlight slung around his neck, made no answer as he rappelled down the damp sides. Wild played out the rope steadily, until Ronnie hovered above the water. “I can see bottom.” he reported. “There’s…an odd sort of glow coming from down there.” “Be careful, Ronnie, it could be some poisonous fish or something.” Travel wailed. Ronnie didn’t answer. A green spot of light gleamed below him. It seemed close enough. Hanging the flashlight by tying the cord to the rope, Ronnie let himself down into the water. It was achingly cold. His flesh felt as if it was tying up in knots to keep warm. Still deeper he lowered himself, and the water swirled and flashed about him as if reflecting red flames, and though he clung up to his neck he still could not touch bottom. He took a deep breath, let go and sank. The water around him was lit a dim and weird red, and strange streaks swirled in it, and suddenly he nearly gulped water: eyes were staring into his, framed by the burning swirls, sad and tortured eyes, of men who were shedding tears as hot as flame, every kind of tear ever wept on the earth; and the eyes formed, looked into his, and swam away. Now his feet hit the bottom, and jamming himself against the sides to keep from floating back up, Ronnie looked around. The sides were smooth, mirrors reflecting the queerest shapes and forms, and under his feet was a floor of clean sand. Fastened to the cistern wall by a latch of cunning bronze, a silver and gold ring hung suspended, four green stars blazing from two serpent heads under a gold crown of flowers. So much he saw before he was frantically fumbling at the catch; and behold the cunning mechanism slid open instantly, and the Ring of Barahir was on his hand. Desperately Ronnie swam upwards, toward the far circle of yellow fire with the white star of the flashlight staring down; but his clothes were heavy, and he had already breathed in water when his hand closed on the rope. Then he was flying out of the well, pulled up by Wild in a single yank, and he was coughing and vomiting and gasping at the same time, and Wild was working his chest and arms, and suddenly water pouted from his mouth, and he could breathe again. “That water was ''salty!” he managed to say. “Sort of bitter and fleshy as well. Like tears.” “I see you have the Ring.” said the Wild Man of Winsted. '' “I saw their eyes all in a flaming of fire…''” muttered Ronnie. “Now that we have the Ring, let us leave.” said Wild. Gripping both of them he tried to merge with the floor to earthport them. The floor spat him out. “Warded.” Wild whispered in complete disbelief. “Warded in a second. I cannot pass it.” “No, I made sure you couldn’t.” a bluff and yet sneering voice came from the entrance. A large man was walking toward them, his head bald, his face ruddy and beaming. He wore long black robes, signs of power sewed into them in purple. “Cornello.” growled Ronnie. “You were supposed to say ‘hello.’” the human host of the Father of Dragons said peevishly. “Hello, Cornello, Cornello, hello, get it? But you people never did have a sense of humor.” “Get out of our way, Dragon, before I make you.” snapped Wild. From far deeper into the cave, from out of the darkness sighed a voice they had not yet heard. “I would be wary of doing that.” All three spun around. Shadows lay everywhere, cast by the jags of the roof, lurking in the openings, and darkness lay behind those shadows, ancient darkness that was before the hills were made. And it was out of that darkness that the sad sighing voice was coming. “Who is it that speaks?” the Wild Man snarled. '' “The one whom you fear.” answered the voice. ''“The one for whom you have fetched this ring.” '' The Wild Man snatched it from Ronnie’s hand and held it up. Jewels from Elvinesse sent forth a light like flame. “Why do you seek it? A powerless ring, a symbol of something dead many Ages, what could you possibly need it for?” The darkness only seemed to grow more solid before the green light. ''“Yield it up to me now, Wild Man. Before we take it painfully.” '' “You still lug the Oppressor upon your ghostly shoulders. I am born of the Road and I command the Road. I call down the Road upon the Ring of Barahir! You cannot overcome the Road, while your might remains unwedded to the slime you so despise.” '' “Do you know what I did to Arheled with the Road underneath him, the Oppressor on my back and myself inside a Star?” '' hissed the dreadful voice. Wild swayed slightly at the sheer malice and the tremendous power of the stare coming out of the Darkness. “You have no power save against other minds!” he cried. “''And is your mind, Wild Man, capable of withstanding mine?” ''pressed the lord of the darkness, and with every word the shadows grew wider, drew closer. “Stop, before I close my hand!” gasped the Wild Man. “I have the strength of the very hills themselves. I can crush this ring to dust, and absorb the atoms into me, if you do not at once allow us to leave!” The darkness shook with a strange, hollow laughter. '' “Dragon, show him his place in the scale of Creation.” '' Shifting like lightning to his seven-headed form, the Father of Dragons let out a blast of flame mingled with power. A spray of earth deluged the power and swallowed it up. “Do you really think to overcome the Wild Man with such tricks?” he snarled. Cornello changed back to man. “Overcoming you was never necessary.” he said. “Distracting you was. Did you really for one moment believe, being of the mountains, that you could withstand the skill of an Ainu, and keep out the tricks of a Black Seraphim? Even Genesis was never higher than me, and even Doom in his Wreath cannot forsee what I can do.” He opened his hand, to reveal there upon his finger the Ring of Barahir. The Wild Man of Winsted changed like lightning. The stone of the floor and of the walls rippled as his power launched itself upon Cornello, and the air seemed darkened with a black mist of power visible. Then cave and mountain shook, and Wild’s form coalesced again, writhing, his essence held in the grip of an angel’s telekinesis. “There are only four living creatures before the Throne of God. Where are the other five, Wild Man? Why does the Holy Mountain still bear the scars of our fingers, and who is it that shivered apart the very Stones of Fire?” Travel gave that queer, broken cry of hers. A strange blue light flashed in her eyes. The Ring of Barahir vanished from Cornello’s hand and reappeared in hers. “Stop, before I send it into a lava pit!” she said. Cornello made a contemptuous motion and the Wild Man of Winsted skidded across the floor, coming to rest beside them. “But we no longer need it, heir of the house of Lane. Once it touched my hand, its’ purpose was done. I took from it that which it guarded.” He held out both hands, bowing to his knees. “Receive now, O Lord, that which is thine own.” From the hands of Cornello a black mist streamed, passing among them and on into the darkness behind them. At its’ touch all three felt faint, sickened, as if they were herbs wilting before a bitter wind: cold, potent with something so ugly and foul that the word ''evil was a pale understatement, a mere wisp of word beside it. A long sigh came from the darkness, as of one quenching an ancient thirst. “The Ring of Barahir held in its’ substance the last drop of the essence of Chaos, with which he infected all matter, and which has now returned to him in full. He is as he once was. Soon he shall incarnate. Then beware, little mountain, for we shall tread the Road itself beneath our feet!” The long-drawn sigh grew greater, deeper, a mighty rumbling inside the darkness. A rattling sound could be heard as of huge metal objects scraping the stone. Out of the shadows of an entrance in the wall, there was rising slowly up a figure all of shadow, crowned and terrible, an iron collar on his neck and shackles of a glowing red metal upon his feet and hands. Wrapped about him like a serpent, coiling and flowing as if living, was the chain forged by the Gods, Angainor the Oppressor, it’s links all green and red, the enchanted metal tikal glowing with their power. '' “Thus shall the Valar themselves become.” '' said the lord of Chaos. As he spoke, with a flash and booming like thunder, Angainor cracked along his mighty length, that unbreakable tikal splintering like cast iron. The fetters shattered in a burst of violet light. With a clang the iron collar fell cloven. Angainor sent up a shriek like the scream of squealing metal, and yet it was like the cry of a live thing as well, so that Ronnie and Travel felt their hearts wrung with pain. There was a blaze of blinding light, red and violet and amber-green. And all thirty fathoms of him cracked and fell in fragments upon the stone floor, and the chain Angainor met his end. The lord of Chaos stepped, freed, out upon the stone floor. His eyes fell on them and nailed them to the ground, cold, aloof, stars of a sad and awful red in the darkness of his face. Travel acted by instinct. Her mind formed hands and grabbed the others, and as the cave around them faded she heard the horrid hollow laughter of the king of all destruction. ''“Go, and tell your White friend what you have seen.” ''she heard his voice hiss in her ears. Then they stumbled forwards, ankle-deep in mountain-grass. “Where are we?” said Travel. “You have got to work on destinations, little lady.” growled the Wild Man. “We’re only on the top of Knapp Hill. Not even at the summit.” “Well, I could try again…” “Forget it.” Wild sighed. “You’ve still got to fetch your car. I’m glad you brought the lanterns; I’m a little beat to go making new ones.” “And my tent, and our supplies…” Travel exclaimed. “They’re way down there!” The night was stuffy and hot. Thick darkness wrapped the hills in a smothering blanket. It was silent, except for the continuous awful drone and whine of anticipatory mosquitos closing in on a meal. “Ow, blast these little monsters!” the Wild Man roared, swatting ferociously. A flash of power rushed out of him in a shock wave and the whining drone abruptly ceased. “You should do that more often.” said Ronnie. “Ah, well, the little birdies need some snack food.” mocked the Wild Man. “I do it when wooing, sometimes, or if I have to spend a while in human shape. These of Witches’ Retreat are especially vicious: the Witch of Winchester called them up to overrun a farm that set the dogs on her. Their remote descendants aren’t quite as powerful, but they still make walking here a living hell. Except for witches, of course.” “Which way to my car?” said Travel. “And is it safe to go back there? I left my tent and such…” “Should be by now.” grunted Wild. “I doubt they stuck around after the show. Strange, though…they had two of the Children in their grasp, ready for taking to the Thrones, and yet they let us go. Why? What’s his game? Is he that confident he can pick you as he pleases, or has he decided he no longer needs you?” “Or are we too strong for him?” Ronnie added. “Strong?” said Wild doubtfully, looking at him. “Yes, strong.” Ronnie replied. “I am Catholic, Wild. Perhaps, though they can overwhelm you, they cannot yet take on the power of the Church, and rather than risk it being used on them, they let us go.” “That does make sense.” muttered Wild. “I do not think they fear your invocations; but your persons they cannot overpower, not without trickery. Yes. Every time they capture you, it is always by deception. Never by conquer.” He shook himself. “Well, I’ll send your stuff over to your car, and then I had better conceal the opening. We don’t want trespassers, now do we? Oh, and….good job snatching that.” Travel looked down at the Ring she was carrying. “Oh…thank you.” she said. The Wild Man bowed, then sank into the earth and was gone. Carrying a lantern apiece, Travel and Ronnie stumbled on over the hill. They passed the Chair fearfully, but it was empty, and Ronnie did not sit down in it. The way down was steep and long, but at last the pale road showed ahead and they plodded down it until they reached Travel’s car. The tent, neatly packed, lay with the supplies right on the hood. “Want me to drop you at your house, Ronnie?” said Travel as she turned on the lights. “Left my bike at the church.” yawned Ronnie. “look you can sleep at my house. We have a spare room, and I know you’re tired.” “I am so out of shape.” he mumbled. “Sounds okay to me.” It was about midnight or so when they stumbled in the back door using Travel’s key. She showed him to her mother’s old room, now the guest bedroom. There was a fan in the window. Turning it on and taking off his shoes and socks Ronnie fell down on the bed and dropped right off. Back to Arheled